


Indispensable

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, First Kiss, M/M, Mutual Pining, Power Imbalance, Protectiveness, Rank Disparity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-19 01:35:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15499410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: Washington is excessively protective of his right hand man. Hamilton learns why.





	Indispensable

There are few faces he reads better than that of his general. Hamilton is good with people. Good at gauging their integrity, good at measuring their virtues and vices, good at convincing them he is right. These are talents he has honed by necessity, and they've carried him further than he ever dared to hope; all the way to this war, this cause, this struggling army.

All the way to General Washington, a man who seems designed by the universe to torment him. Washington fills Alexander with desire, and hunger, and a desperate need to prove himself worthy.

The moment he first set foot in Washington's office, Hamilton knew he would never be the same. His own ambitions remain, but they are secondary now. Subservient to the commands of his general. Hamilton will spend the rest of this war—perhaps the rest of his life—making sure he is everything Washington needs.

Part of that effort means anticipating orders. Knowing Washington's moods. Watching him far too closely—a pastime Hamilton would be inclined toward regardless—so of course he knows his general well. Of course he can see past the surface to the subtler nuance beneath. He has a great deal of practice at it.

There is a less familiar look on Washington's face in this moment. The general sits at his desk wearing a grim expression, a quiet downward sweep of his heavy brow giving him an almost wounded air.

Hamilton has seen a dozen different frowns on Washington's face in the year since joining his staff. He has seen anger, exhaustion, disappointment, frustration. He has seen the barely contained rage that comes with dressing down a subordinate, and the quieter displeasure of failing against impossible odds. This is something else entirely. This expression carries a tinge of genuine hurt.

Impossible: who in the entire army has the ability to wound the feelings of the untouchable General Washington?

But little as Hamilton can credit the possibility, he has no other explanation.

Equally troubling is the general's silence. Washington may be taciturn by nature, but he summoned Hamilton deliberately to his office—his private quarters—along with orders to come without delay. There was urgency in the hurried delivery of the message, and Hamilton assumed some vital task awaited his pen. 

Instead he's been standing before Washington's silent stare so long that he has—more than once—forgotten and reminded himself to breathe.

An occasional burst of activity echoes audible behind him, carrying into the office from the drafty hallway, and from the workroom at the other end of the farmhouse. But no one comes through the door. No one interrupts them. And as the seconds stretch longer without so much as a word spoken between them, Hamilton's fear that something is _wrong_ begins to solidify.

"Sir?" he says at last, forcing his voice even.

Washington gives a visible start, as though returning to reality from somewhere more distant. His frown does not ease. If anything it turns heavier. Pensive and stern and indecipherable.

"Close the door, Colonel." The low words carry all the severity of command.

Hamilton's blood pulses faster, but he obeys. He needs only turn around to take hold of the latch and shove the door firmly shut. It's not fear that sets his heart beating so quickly—he has never been afraid of Washington and he is not about to start. It's a hundred more complicated emotions, a tangle of things he is not allowed to want. It shouldn't matter that the door is closed—what difference does it make—but there is the kick of adrenaline anyway. The familiar, irrational burst of anticipation that always accompanies finding himself alone with his general.

It does not help that this time feels different. This time Washington is watching him more closely, and Hamilton still doesn't know what to make of the scrutiny.

With the door shut, Hamilton moves to the center of the room and stands at rigid attention. His gaze casts toward the floor, deferential but also conveniently avoiding eye contact. He can still feel his general staring, and it takes every ounce of self-restraint not to fidget.

"Do you know why I've called you in here?" Washington asks.

Hamilton continues to hold perfectly still. "No, sir." It's an honest answer. For all the instincts warning him that he must be in trouble, Hamilton doesn't know what he might have done. Washington's only been back in camp for a day, after a two-week absence. Hamilton kept things running smoothly enough without him, only departed camp himself a couple of times, on business too urgent to wait. He hasn't had time since Washington's return to step out of line.

Silence stretches again, but it's shorter this time and at last Washington declares, "I know about your maneuver downriver."

Hamilton raises his head and blinks in confusion. He follows Washington's meaning; one of the times he left camp was on word of a British outpost setting up far too close for comfort. He couldn't wait for orders—that would only have allowed the enemy time to finish establishing their base—so Hamilton did the necessary thing. He gathered a small force of his own and snuck down the river. Stole supplies, set fires that would see the enemy's initial efforts soundly ruined. 

The mission did not go perfectly—not by a long shot—Hamilton lost two soldiers, nearly lost a third. This was all in his report. Tragic but unavoidable. He can't imagine Washington has summoned him to reprimand his handling of the mission.

In fact he is _sure_ that's not what this is. Washington would not have insisted on closing the door if he intended only to tear apart Hamilton's command decisions. Washington never spares his staff's pride when it comes to disciplinary measures.

Hamilton schools his features and resists the urge to duck his head. "What was wrong with the maneuver, sir?" He resists with more difficulty the desire to explain himself. Defensiveness bubbles up in his chest and he tamps it down. There is no point justifying his actions until he knows _why_ Washington disapproves of them.

"It was reckless."

"It was necessary," Hamilton counters in a deliberately measured tone. If he _is_ about to be officially reprimanded, he'd just as soon not add a charge of insubordination. But he knows he is right. He wouldn't have risked their limited resources carelessly. There's a reason Washington leaves him with unrestricted authority during these rare but lengthy absences.

Washington rises so abruptly Hamilton nearly startles.

He manages to give no outward hint of surprise as Washington's chair scrapes back—as Washington rounds the desk and stands directly in front of him. Not quite near enough to touch, but it would take little effort to close the remaining distance.

Hamilton remains motionless, at rigid attention, for once holding his tongue and waiting to be addressed.

"And was it also necessary that _you_ should command the expedition personally?"

The question lands like a physical blow, and Hamilton nearly takes a step back. His face warms, and his chest chills, and his eyes go painfully wide. Of all the problems he has been trying and failing to foresee, he could not have hoped to arrive at _this_ for the cause of Washington's upset. For all Hamilton's requests to command a battalion of his own, he has never once thought Washington's refusals truly stemmed from doubt in his capabilities.

" _Sir_ " Hamilton hates how helpless he sounds, laid low by the unanticipated lack of confidence.

"Why did you not delegate the mission when it became clear action must be taken?" That indecipherable mask of feeling is more stark on Washington's face than ever, and Hamilton still doesn't know what it means.

"Your Excellency." He shores himself up, squaring his shoulders and raising his chin. Hopefully he looks confident but not defiant. "I assure you, I was perfectly competent to execute the mission."

"I am not questioning your competence, Colonel," Washington retorts tightly.

Hamilton closes his mouth, presses his lips into a thin line. Confusion swims across his senses; if Washington is not questioning his fitness to command then what can this possibly be about?

"There were casualties," Washington presses, in a tone that implies Hamilton should be able to follow his reasoning. Hamilton feels the sharp stab of guilt-failure-loss at being reminded—as though he could forget so quickly—of the men he lost in the excursion.

"Yes." There is no point denying it. Hamilton has already given Washington his report.

Washington's eyes narrow. "And what if _you_ had been among them?" That indecipherable _something_ has crept into Washington's voice now. There are tinges Hamilton can almost suss out as he peers uncertainly into Washington's face. Anger, mostly. In half a dozen subtle hues.

"Your Excellency." Hamilton does not shrink beneath the daunting weight of Washington's gaze. "A quick decision was vital. It was an acceptable risk."

" _Acceptable_?" Washington thunders, voice rising to a shout so forceful Hamilton is surprised the very windows don't rattle. The word is accompanied by a single step forward and a flashing of absolute fire in Washington's eyes.

Hamilton stands his ground with difficulty, staring at Washington with open confusion, at a perfect loss to explain his general's burst of rage.

"Sir?" he ventures reluctantly when the simmering, furious silence stretches too long.

He can _see_ Washington leveling himself out by degrees. Reining in his temper, breathing more steadily, easing the painful tension from broad shoulders. Washington does not retreat from his thoughtless invasion of Hamilton's personal space. He does not even seem to notice how close he is standing.

Washington's voice holds a thin veneer of calm when he asks, "Do you consider yourself expendable?"

"Sir, this is a war. A war that could cost us everything should we lose. Whatever the personal cost, surely—"

"Do you consider yourself expendable?" Washington repeats more forcefully, interrupting Hamilton's attempt to deflect a direct answer. Calling him out inescapably. There is unyielding iron in the question.

Well. Blunt honesty it is then. "Of course I'm expendable."

For an instant—a heartbeat so brief Hamilton could almost believe he has imagined it—a wounded expression flashes across the stern lines of Washington's handsome face. The look shutters quickly, blanking too fast to be anything but a deliberate effort. Washington's voice is strained when he finally speaks.

"That is the wrong answer, Colonel."

"All due respect," Hamilton answers cautiously, "but with the exception of yourself, every one of us is expendable. You have other aides, other officers, other scribes."

"And you think there is a single man among them who could replace you?"

"I think in war death is inevitable. And if winning this war costs my life, I am willing to pay that price."

"But I am not." The flatness is gone now, replaced abruptly by a low, burning intensity Hamilton has never witnessed before. "You are more essential than you think, Alexander. I _cannot win_ this conflict without you. If you fall…" Whatever the assertion might have been, it tapers to painful nothing, unfinished.

Hamilton shakes his head. "Sir, if I fall you'll manage without me. The battle isn't won or lost with the life of an aide de camp."

"You are my chief of staff," Washington points out in clipped tones.

"A position someone else can fill." It is surreal and not at all pleasant, to realize he is arguing for his own death, his own redundancy. He has struggled so hard to make himself necessary to this cause. What instinct to self-sabotage is this, that it's making him argue against everything he's worked so hard for?

"Perhaps you did not hear me correctly." Washington steps forward. Measured, deliberate, utterly demolishing what little space remains between them.

When strong hands frame Hamilton's face—force him to look up into his general's eyes—he holds his breath and does not interrupt.

"You are essential to _me_." Washington's voice is quiet and fierce. It is powerful despite the strained control undercutting every word. Raw and honest and more than Hamilton has ever dared to hope for.

For an irrational instant he wonders if— _hopes_ —Washington will kiss him. A foolish notion. As the seconds distort endlessly around them, Washington makes no such move. He holds motionless, keeping Hamilton trapped with his piercing stare—with the strength in his hands—peering down into Hamilton's face as though searching for proof that the words have been taken to heart.

" _Sir_ ," Hamilton says at length, that sole helpless word sneaking out despite his sincere efforts to keep quiet for once in his damn life. He wants to retract the syllable the instant it's out of his mouth. He sounds too honest—too vulnerable—and there are things his general does not need to know. Truths Hamilton is too smart to voice aloud, and yet here they are, sneaking out without his permission. On display, and never mind the need for secrecy and discretion.

But instead of looking horrified at the unintended confession, Washington looks… considering. Thoughtful. His eyes narrow, but he remains exactly where he is. Invading Hamilton's space. Touching him steadily.

"I cannot keep having this argument with you," Washington says in the same low, emphatic tones as before. "Your death would be a grievous loss to our cause, _and_ to me personally. I don't know if…" Again Washington tapers off, and Hamilton's breath catches.

He reaches up to cover one of Washington's hands with his own. Curls his palm warmly over Washington's knuckles, traces long fingers. He resists—barely—the urge to turn his head and press a kiss to the warm palm. Only now does he begin to wonder, would the gesture be as unwelcome as he's always assumed?

Washington's eyes close, and a visible tremble courses through him. His hands slip from Hamilton's face to his shoulders, and Hamilton lets go. Waits for his general to look at him.

When Washington finally does, he is wearing an expression so honest and open that the sight makes Alexander's chest hurt.

"Should I lose you," Washington says in a voice rough with gravel, "I don't know if I could continue fighting at all."

Hamilton stares, absorbing this admission with desperate disbelief. It can't be true. Washington is the greatest man he has ever known, and Hamilton…

Hamilton is _nobody_.

"Your Excellency, you can't mean that." But even as he protests, he recognizes the truth in his general's face. A thunderbolt, a booming cannonade, a shaking of the very earth beneath his feet would be less jarring than the sudden and improbable understanding that ricochets through Hamilton now.

There is little warning—the barest glimpse of quick decision—before Washington leans down and presses a kiss to Alexander's startled mouth.

Hamilton's eyes slip shut of their own volition, and he gasps into the kiss. Holds perfectly still until Washington pulls away. He's glad when those strong hands continue gripping his shoulders—relieved Washington does not sound an immediate retreat.

It takes him several heart-hammering seconds to open his eyes. For once Washington's expression is deliberately unguarded. Baring his soul to Hamilton's incredulous scrutiny.

"I'm not sorry," Washington says into the confounded silence. "If this is what it takes to make you understand, I will not apologize for drastic measures."

Hamilton blinks. His arms feel heavy at his sides, and he aches to touch and hold on. "Kissing me is your idea of a drastic measure?" He sounds winded.

Washington quirks a single eloquent eyebrow. "You are my subordinate. I've court-martialed officers for less egregious misconduct."

Hamilton licks his lips. The gesture isn't meant to be coy—it's not deliberate—but he thrills just the same at the way Washington's eyes track the movement, expression darkening in answer. _Want_ is an especially attractive look on the general's face.

"Can—" Hamilton starts, hesitates, then plows forward despite better instincts. "Can I ask a question?"

Washington nods.

"How long have you wanted to do that?"

Washington appears to genuinely consider for a moment before answering, "Since the first time I saw you wake atop your work with ink staining your forehead."

Hamilton blushes at the image and realizes that the answer tells him nothing. He can remember countless such instances, and there's no guessing which might be the first Washington witnessed.

He swallows. "And how long have you suspected my inclinations?"

Something more complicated flickers at the question, accompanied by a faint downward turn of Washington's mouth. "I did not suspect."

Hamilton's jaw drops. "But you _kissed me_." If Washington thought him uninterested, he can't possibly have harbored anything like hope, which makes this… what?

A desperate gambit indeed, Hamilton realizes. An attempt to shock him into having a care for his own life. A powerful confession and a dangerous secret.

Hamilton draws a shaky breath. "Will you do it again?"

Washington removes his hands sharply from Hamilton's shoulders and takes a step back, dropping both arms to his sides. "No."

"But _sir_ —"

"This is not a seduction, Colonel." Surreal, to hear rank used in that sentence, but Washington continues on as though he's said nothing out of the ordinary. "I have no intention of taking you to my bed. When you leave this office you can consider the subject closed for good."

"You want me!" Hamilton protests.

"I am well accustomed to wanting things I cannot have," Washington answers gravely.

"But you _can_ have me." Hamilton bursts forward, heedless of what a terrible idea this is. "Sir, please—"

" _No_." The refusal is unyielding as stone, stern and harsh enough to make Hamilton flinch. A moment later Washington's voice gentles by degrees. "Even if I were willing to put you at that kind of risk. I _will not_ bed someone who is obligated to call me 'sir'."

Hamilton has no argument to counter that point. He has no choice but to concede—unhappily—that Washington is right. Little as he wants to consider consequences, there's no denying that what he's proposing _cannot happen_. Not while Hamilton is Washington's chief of staff. Not while he serves the continental army at his general's pleasure.

But perhaps there's still the unlikeliest sliver of a chance.

"What about after the war?" He won't be a soldier forever, and Washington will not always have an army to command.

Washington is silent for a long time, peering hard at Hamilton. Considering. "After the war?" he echoes, as though he may have forgotten the question.

"Yes." Hamilton stands straighter. " _After_."

Washington paces as he thinks, striding slowly in a circle with Hamilton at the center. Once. Twice. Finally he stops at Hamilton's back. Not touching, but so close body heat bleeds between them.

"If you want to know what I might consider _after the war_ ," Washington murmurs, warm breath tickling the shell of Hamilton's ear, "you will have to survive and ask me."

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: **[Grim](https://dreamlittleyo.dreamwidth.org/103669.html)**


End file.
